AN: Just to reiterate: Catherine and Vincent are in love with each other, but have yet to admit to themselves, let alone to each other. This is set two weeks after Catherine's brush with pneumonia, and it's set around Christmas time. (Which is really freaking weird writing because it's February right now and all this fucked up shit is happening with the weather.) This is going to be a long-ass chapter. A big shoutout to y'all writing reviews! Love y'all just as much as I love Vincent and Catherine. 3
free: a person or one's will, thought, choice, action, etc.; independent; unrestricted
After Catherine's second bout of 'recovery time' in Vincent's cabin, she was getting pretty antsy. Due to the gigantic snow drifts piled up so graciously by the wind on the side of the shed, they weren't able to train at all. What she didn't mind was that, even after she had fully recovered, Vincent still doted upon her like she was a princess. They stole kisses at random points every day: whenever someone had won a game of scrabble or made a rather witty comeback during their banter, but they had both decided subconsciously to hold off on sex for a little while longer.
That wasn't to say that the tension and the heat wasn't there: it was, churning like a boiling pot of hormones and unrequited feelings. They both caught themselves fantasizing at the most inconvenient of times, especially when they usually weren't separated by much more than a couple of feet, and would have to snap out of it before the other noticed. Must of their 'unrequited sexual tension' was channeled into their playful, flirty banter.
"Vincent?" Catherine asked after coming out of the shower one morning, absent-mindedly running her fingers through her hair as he was making breakfast.
"Are you tawking ta me? Are you tawking ta me?" He replied in an exaggerated Brooklyn accent, facing away from her.
"What?" She asked, bewildered by his sudden outburst. This was unbelievably out of character from his usually brooding and pensive mystique.
He turned to face her with the biggest grin on his face, his half-apron splattered with grease from the bacon he was frying. "'Taxi Driver'? Don't tell me you've never seen 'Taxi Driver'," he demanded, the hand he was holding the spatula with resting on his hip.
She shook her head apologetically. "Sorry, babe. I'm the worst New Yorker ever. What brought this on anyway?"
Vincent shrugged and went back to his cooking. "I just woke up in a good mood today. I mean, it's easy to be happy when you've got a beautiful woman in your arms." He threw a suggestive wink over his shoulder. She had to admit: he was unbelievably sexy at all hours of the day, but a happy Vincent was the most adorable thing she had ever seen. A faint blush colored his scarred cheek and he hummed to himself as he worked.
Catherine came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, enjoying the view of his muscles flexing as he flipped the bacon and the pancakes. She kissed the back of his neck before resting her head on the back of his shoulder blade.
"'Luke, I am your father'?" She growled against his back in a mockery of a man with a distorted breathing apparatus.
"'Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back'. How about 'I'll never let go Jack, I promise'?" He quoted in a hoarse falsetto.
"That's easy: 'Titanic'. Give me something hard."
"I can't remember which porno that would be from. 'Give me something hard'? Sounds like a Ron Jeremy flick to me," he joked, his shit eating grin all over his face.
Catherine slugged his arm, giggling, "Not like that, you pervert. I meant give me a difficult quote." Vincent turned off the stove as he pondered his rebuttal.
"You like old comedies?"
"Hell yeah."
Vincent scrunched up his face, squinting his eyes and jutting out his jaw. "'Destiny! Destiny! No escaping not for me! Destiny!'"
She laughed, clapping her hands excitedly. "Gene Wilder in 'Young Frankenstein'!"
And so it went. Conversation flowed easily between them. It was always hard for Catherine to talk to boys her age, because most just wanted her for her looks. If Catherine ever showed even a margin of her true intelligence they ran for the hills. Not for Vincent: as a doctor and a soldier, he appreciated a woman that was more than just a pretty face. She was witty, beautiful, and tough as hell.
And for Catherine, the few boyfriends she had were always the 'bad boys' with faux leather jackets and 'give 'em hell' attitudes. Vincent, whilst being the ultimate bad boy, was kind and caring, not to mention an unbelievable dork when he wanted to be. While many women would be afraid of his scarred face, she thought it made him twice as hot as well as twice as vulnerable.
What was even more remarkable was that some of their psychological wounds were beginning to heal in each other's presence. Nightmares were slowly being replaced with calm, soothing dreams and sleep-filled nights as they slept snuggled underneath the covers. No longer did Vincent jump at shadows or Catherine cower from loud bangs because their fear was being overcome. The darkness, the void that had left a hole in their hearts when they had first met was now filled with light and hope.
With Christmas fast approaching, Vincent had insisted upon cutting down a small pine tree whilst Catherine walked to town to buy more food and decorations. Small, rather ratty stockings that looked suspiciously like an old man's socks hung over the fireplace while streamers and popcorn strings hung from the rafters. Vincent even went so far as to draw mini snowmen in the frost gathered on the windows. All attempts at building a snowman outside ended with a rather war-like snowball fight between the lovebirds.
Vincent had gotten rather suspicious after it had taken Catherine three hours to get back from town during her supply run, covered in sweat and panting heavily. "Where the hell have you been?" He demanded, rather concerned by her disheveled state.
She gave him an odd look. "Buying stuff in town. I sent another untraceable postcard to Heather wishing her a Merry Christmas and that I was still safe, too." She set the bags of food on the counter and groaned in pain. "Ow, my back," she hissed, rubbing at the soreness with a grimace.
"Do you want me to take a look at it?"
Catherine waved her hand dismissively. "No, I'm just sore from walking, that's all." She plopped down onto the couch next to him and spotted something new on the coffee table. "What is that thing?" It was some sort of electronic device with a grotesque array of wires jutting from its exposed circuitry, the hard plastic outer casing cut away with pliers.
Vincent grinned. "I turned a walkie-talkie into a full-on radio. So we can listen to music, see?" He picked it up and twisted the knob on the top. A rather mangled rendition of 'Santa Baby' cut through the static, obviously coming from a local station's playlist of heinously overplayed Christmas songs. Catherine laughed, the pure novelty of making something instead of buying it was beginning to show its true value: The pain, the frustration, all the trials and errors could not be felt unless something was made by oneself, not by some faceless and nameless person from across the world.
"Did you learn how to do this in the army?" She asked, loving the way his eyes lit up from assessing her reaction.
He shook his head. "No, my big brother William showed me how to do it. Mikey Junior was the one who taught him." His eyes glazed over whenever he talked about his brothers: his loss was one Catherine doubted he would ever recover from. At least Heather knew Catherine was safe, because Catherine had written things that only her little sister would understand as cryptically as she could. Though Heather had no idea where her sister was, who she was with, or what she was running from, at least she had some semblance of closure.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
On Christmas morning, Vincent awoke to find several rather clumsily wrapped packages sitting underneath the tree he had cut down with his own two hands. Coffee had been brewed, pancakes had been cooked, and the fire was alive and well. Catherine finished setting the table just as a chink of sunshine broke through the trees to shine upon her. Her auburn hair shone dark red in the sun's gaze, her smile a thousand times brighter than the clearest diamond, and her cheeks were hued with just a tint of pink. Whatever she bought him for Christmas would pale in comparison to what he wanted.
But Vincent would continue to deny himself, to deprive himself of any opportunity to quench his desire to taste her, to have her in any fashion he wished. Boundaries set by any woman were something he always made sure to respect, a trait many of his male counterparts seem to be missing. Still, he ached for her.
"H-hey, Merry Christmas," he stammered, his brain coughing and sputtering like some ancient Chevy. She hugged him, wrapping her small but strong arms around him as he bent to kiss her hair.
"Good morning," she murmured into his chest. Their silences were never awkward: half of their conversations didn't need words to be understood. She felt so warm and safe around him, especially considering that he was a superhero who could rip anyone who even looked at her funny limb-from-limb. His massive frame was a presence not to be ignored but it did give her some semblance of calmness.
They broke apart to eat breakfast, Vincent practically purring over the surprise chocolate chips in the pancakes, and retired with full bellies to the couch. Catherine dragged over the biggest package to him, which was wrapped in what seemed to be the Sunday comic strips. He smiled, gleeful as the little boy from 'A Christmas Story' when he finally got his red rider BB gun.
It was a mini TV with a built-in VCR player, obviously used with dents and grime on the dials. "This is why it took me so long to get home from buying supplies," Catherine explained. "I figured we could watch movies together." She handed him another box, much lighter than the mini TV, which rattled with the tell-tale plastics clicking against tape reels.
Vincent opened his box and laughed. "You got all the Mel Brooks classics. 'Men in Tights', 'Spaceballs', and 'Young Frankenstein? I grew up watching these! Aw yes, Monty Python!" The sound of her giggles chiming in made him close his eyes as he tuned out everything else to hear the beat of her heart thrumming happily against her chest. His grip on the box tightened until she brought him out of it.
"Vincent, is something wrong?" The concern she had for him was undying, regardless of how dangerous his nature could turn out to be, she would never be afraid of him. She always had a shoulder to lean on, and she was always there for him. And he wanted to always be there for her as well.
"I love you," he managed to squeeze out of his terrified throat. Her heartbeat gave a little jump as she gasped as if in pain. He instantly regretted what he had said. Goddamnit, Vincent! You should have just given her the fucking birdhouse and moved on. Every doubt he ever held in regards to Catherine came crashing in to cave in the walls around his heart. He spared a glance to see her eyes welling up with tears.
He placed the box of cheesy videos on the coffee table in front of him. "I do, Catherine," he continued quietly, "I couldn't spend another second in this fucking cabin without saying it. Sometimes I love you so much I scare myself," his jaw clenched. "I'm afraid of what will happen to me if I lose you. Just the thought of it keeps me awake at night. You saved me. And I don't mean in that Jesusy-lovey-dovey bullshit kind of 'saved'. I wouldn't be sitting here if it weren't for you."
A tear trickled down Catherine's cheek, and Vincent took it to mean the worst. She doesn't love me. She just feels sorry for me-
"Don't you dare think like that, Vincent Keller," she snapped, her tearful expression still as fierce and strong as ever. "I can see what you're thinking, but you're wrong. I don't pity you, mostly because I fucking hate it when people pity me." She took his face in her hands with her thumb resting on his scar. "I love you. And I'm not saying that just because you said it. I'm not saying that because you're letting me stay here. I'm not saying that because you're the only person I've had an in-depth conversation with since I saw my mom get shot in front of me.
"I'm saying 'I love you' because it's true. I've decided to stop denying myself the pleasure of saying those words because, goddamnit, I deserve it. I deserve to love someone like you."
"What, like fucked up?"
"No. Someone brave, just, and pure. Someone I can trust with everything I have and I know they'd do the same for me. We're healing because we've saved each other, Vincent. So, yes, I love you. And I'm going to say it every day for the rest for my life. I'm not going anywhere." She kissed him with such force he gave a little grunt of surprise. Their mouths fought for dominance as they squeezed in gasps of air between their lips meeting and parting.
With their vows of love now requited, Vincent and Catherine were now free of their bonds to their fear. Whatever chains linking their personal demons to their weighted souls were broken and re-soldered to bind them together. Though these chains were not heavy as the darkness was, these new bonds were much stronger, much more infallible than even the most heavily wrought iron fresh from a blacksmith's oven.
Though today was not the day they would make love: now that they were assured that neither was going anywhere, all sense of urgency was lost. They had forever to explore each other, and forever began today.
Whew! That was a long one. Btw, this story is going to be hella long. Everything I have planned for these two is downright cruel, but hey, at least I'm not killing either of them off. Which is a guarantee: no major character deaths in this story, promise. 3 Reviews are appreciated.